As I sip my coffee and
marvel at the French Vanilla
goodness of it, I wonder about
the processed chemical components
of it and whether it’s bad for me,
but it’s so delicious in my steamy cup.
Do I care?
Do I care that it might be unhealthy?
That it might be made with bug legs or
cow eyes or monkey pubes?
Do I care that it might not be good for
my liver or heart?
I don’t care.
It’s good and I want it.
Every single morning I want it.
I miss it on the days I don’t have coffee.
I take another sip, even after writing the
phrase, “monkey pubes”.
The right amount to pick me
up and get me going, to focus on my job,
my poem, my life.
Is it metaphorical?
Are we all willing to swallow a little unknown
to sate our overwhelming desires for
some fleeting satisfaction?
Are we conditioned to eat and drink from
the table of chemistry without complaint?
Another warm sip, my coffee is cooling now,
it almost tastes better when it’s not piping hot,
its rich and lightly creamy, full of sugar and optimistic
potential. I can get that project done. I can get these
tasks completed, thanks to the coffee and French Vanilla
flavors, and maybe monkey pubes.